Thomas Warton (1728–1790)

FROM Pembroke’s princely dome, where mimic Art

Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,

Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,

And breathing forms from the rude marble start—

How to life’s humbler scene can I depart,

My breast all glowing from these gorgeous towers?

In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours?

Vain the complaint; for Fancy can impart

(To Fate superior, and to Fortune’s doom)

Whate’er adorns the stately-storied hall.

She, ’mid the dungeon’s solitary gloom,

Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall;

Bid the green landscape’s vernal beauty bloom,

And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.